


The Steward, His Lady, and Their Sons

by just_ann_now



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Children, Courtship, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Humor, Pregnancy, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tales of Denethor, Finduilas, and their family, from their courtship days until (probably) their sons' young adulthood. My Denethor is firmly book-based and my fics are sympathetic to his character. A number of supporting Original Characters may appear as well.<br/>The drabbles were originally posted at LJ community tolkien_weekly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forethought

**Forethought**

 

We had barely an hour's notice before the Lord Steward was at the door. 

"Master Bowyer, I have a son to be trained in all the warrior's arts. Swords of ancient lineage we have in plenty, but I bid you take your finest yew-wood, and craft him a bow, straight and strong. A mighty bow for a mighty man." And then he was gone. 

Carefully I selected the stave. It would be years before Lord Denethor, now four days old, would take up his bow, but I'd best have it ready, should my lord Ecthelion choose to call again.


	2. Warrior Stance

**Warrior Stance**

The assistant sword-master's teaching methods were unorthodox, yet those few who completed his training spoke wonderingly of achievements in strength, balance, agility. Denethor could hardly wait to test himself in this arcane study. 

In the small bare room swords remained stacked against the wall as students practiced twisting their bodies into ever more complex postures, holding them for long moments as breathing slowed and the mind sharpened. 

Self-discipline. Concentration. Schooling the mind to stillness. These were the lessons Denethor valued, even in his youth: the dominion of the mind, the mastery of the subtle body over the physical.


	3. The Dancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, who have only known Denethor in his later years, when his burdens lay heavily upon him, can scarcely imagine him in the glory of his youth.

**The Dancer**

It seemed as though I had known the Lord Denethor all my life – he was my older brothers’ closest friend, after all – but I did not fall in love with him until I was twenty-four years old, at my first _Mettarë_ ball.

I was nervous that evening, I remember, clasping my hands together tightly, trying to dry my sweating palms – so unladylike!- and not gawk like a Lossarnach tradeswoman. I wanted to take in everything at once – the thousands of candles, the greenery and flowers, the heady scent of perfume. My twin brothers, Alcarin and Surian, were with me, for it was the custom that young women should be first escorted into society by our brothers or kinsmen closest in age. It was to their peers that we were being presented. 

“Denethor!” Alcarin whooped as Surian waved. Such behavior would have been disgraceful in young women, but in high-spirited young officers it was considered charming. Denethor, hearing them, turned and quirked his lip in their playful sign of recognition. His eyes grew wide with surprise when he noticed me. I tried not to fidget as he joined us, clasping my brothers on the shoulder as was their custom. I had seen this greeting a thousand times, from when I attended my first tournaments and sporting events at sixteen. Tonight, though, everything seemed strange: the unfamiliar rituals of an unexplored land. Then Denethor turned toward me, taking my hand as I rose from my deepest curtsey. _Please,_ I remember thinking, _do not let me stumble, do not let me topple like a toy soldier._

You, who have only known Denethor in his later years, when his burdens lay heavily upon him, can scarcely imagine him in the glory of his youth. He was a magnificent figure of a man, lithe and powerful, as graceful as a cat. His raven hair, usually held back in a queue, tonight fell elegantly curled to his shoulders. And he danced magnificently, as though moving to the music were as instinctive to him as breathing; I could hardly take my eyes off him.

“Surely, you can not be _Írildë_?” I could feel myself blushing. “Impossible! I’ve not seen you since you were, what, twelve years old?”

“I was twenty, my lord, when last we met, at the Summer Tournament. You bested Surian but not Alcarin that year. He spoke of nothing else for months, driving us all mad with his boasting, until you overcame him again in the autumn. It was a great relief to our family, and so, I offer you our thanks.”

His dark eyes sparkled with humor. “Well, I’ve tried to put the memory from my mind; perhaps that it is why is seems so long ago. Is this your first Mettarë ball, then.?” 

“It is, my lord.”

“You grace us with your loveliness. Would you care to join me in a dance?”

When he took my hand, my doom was sealed: never would I love any other man.

~*~

He began appearing regularly for tea, not weekly but at least once a month. We discussed many things: happenings in the city, history, literature; the strange and fascinating cultures of foreign lands. When he spoke of politics or military concerns I listened intently, keeping my eyes always fixed on his; we had been taught that such a habit gives a woman an air of intelligent understanding.

After he left, I would ask my brothers about the military questions; they laughed and said Denethor had quite enough sources for advice in those matters and was not looking for any from _me._ So I began to ask my father instead. The first time, he regarded me quizzically; then, perhaps realizing my purpose, began to explain these matters in simple terms that were yet not condescending as my brothers would have been. I think that was the moment my father realized that I was no longer a child but a woman preparing herself for a future in which an understanding of these concerns would be of vital import.

~*~

Twelve years. Twelve years from the night he first danced with me; twelve years of meeting formally and informally, dinners and balls, picnics and hunting parties, fencing competitions and horse races. Twelve years of partnering him at the first and last dance, as clear an announcement of interest as a proclamation from the White Tower.

Why did he not speak? I might have asked my brothers if he ever mentioned me fondly, but of course I could say nothing, not even to them. Yet I never doubted for a moment that one day I would be Denethor’s wife – it was merely a matter of patience. Under the sun I appeared cheerful and placid, filling my days with maidenly pursuits, but at night in my bedchamber I tore at my nails until they bled. 

One day my brothers came home, even more high-spirited than usual, with news: Lord Denethor would be going to Dol Amroth for three months, to study at first hand the seaward defenses and the Corsair threat. They would be accompanying him as military and diplomatic assistants. Shortly before they left Denethor came to tea; I had noticed that he was most likely to appear when my brothers had duty elsewhere. We chatted of inconsequential matters: the expected weather during the journey, the primitive hostelry along the way, the difficulty of keeping my brothers to their best behavior for any prolonged period. Usually Denethor moved about the room as we chatted, but this time he surprised me by suddenly sitting down next to me and taking my hand. It was the first time he had ever touched me, other than when we were dancing.

“Írildë,” he said; I waited, trying to control the pounding of my heart. If he had chosen now to speak, it was beyond all the bounds of tradition and propriety. He should have first spoken to my brothers; then the three of them would have gone together to my father. Surian and Alcarin would have attested formally to his lineage, reputation and financial stability (as if any of that were in question). Upon acceptance of his suit all the arrangements would have been made before a single word was said, at least openly, to me. I never would have imagined that Denethor would flaunt convention so; I felt both shocked and thrilled at the prospect.

“Írildë,” he repeated. I smiled, encouragingly, I hoped. “You know, of course, that I shall be gone from the City for some time. I was wondering, that is, I was hoping….” Patiently I waited, nodding, smiling; I could hardly breathe. “I was wondering if you could write to me, sometimes, while I am gone? The couriers travel twice a week, though I would not expect you to write so often as that. You have a fine wit; your descriptions would make me feel as though I were still here. I should not miss the city so, were you to keep me informed of all the news.”

I stared at him, stunned - was that all? - then quickly regained my composure. It would not do for him to guess I had imagined him capable of any indiscretion. 

“I would be honored, of course. Are there any particular issues of interest you would like me to report? The weather, agricultural prospects, society gossip?”

He smiled broadly, relaxed again. “Dear Írildë! You are such a fine friend! As dear to me as your brothers. I will miss your company sorely while I am away.”

Hardly what I wished to hear, but still, I was content.

~*~

They expected to be gone for three months, but the three became four, and then five; finally my brothers and the rest of the delegation came back without him.

“He’s still the guest of Prince Adrahil. We had quite a festive time of it there, when we were not slaving night and day mapping the coastal defenses.” My brothers were as talkative as ever; with five months of news, it would be a lively evening.

“What was Prince Adrahil like? And the city, the people?”

“He’s a marvel! They say he has Elvish blood, but you wouldn’t know to hold it against him. What a swordsman! He bested us all, even Denethor, every day before breakfast without breaking a sweat.” Poor Surian, twenty hours a day of swordplay would not make him any more skillful, nor diminish his love for the sport. 

“That must have been a humbling experience, for you two, at least. I wish I had been there to see. What of the rest of the Prince’s family?”

“There’s a boy, Imrahil, twenty or so I think. He’s served notably on land and sea, for all his youth. A good sort. You’d like him, I think. Oh, and a girl, too, Finduilas.”

The fact that Alcarin, noted for his intense appreciation of the fair sex, had so little to say piqued my interest at once. “What of her? Numenorean _and_ Elvish blood, and a princess, there’s a good match for one of you.”

Alcarin nearly choked on his brandy. “No, not for me, she’s too bookish. Always going on and on about queer Elvish poetry, or history, or some such foolishness. Pleasant, but she bored me. Surian, now, spent hours and hours with her…”

“I did not! It’s not my fault you were always on duty and unable to join us. She’s nice enough, but not really my type. Thin. I like a bit of, well, curve, to put my arm around, not a bony shoulder. Though she had very pretty eyes; lovely eyes, really.”

I was nearly in tears with laughter. “I hope that I get to meet this paragon one day, just to mark for myself the accuracy or even the kindness of your descriptions.”

They both stared at me, dumbfounded for a moment, then began to laugh. “Of course! _That’s_ the news we forgot to mention! She _is_ coming here – Prince Adrahil and his entire household are coming, for several months at least. Denethor stayed behind to help sort things out, and escort them here.”

~*~

They arrived in Minas Tirith at the turn of the year. She was small and slim, soft- voiced, with beautiful eyes. I liked her immediately, though had some difficulty imagining her paired with either of my brothers. Still, stranger things had happened; unexpected alliances had often resulted in brilliant marriages. Perhaps an infusion of exotic Dol Amroth blood was just what our City needed.

~*~

Over the years, it had gradually fallen to me to check every detail at the Lord Steward’s entertainments: candles, flowers, and greenery; music, food, and drink. This Mettarë ball, I thought to myself, was of particular magnificence, displaying our traditional arts quite elegantly to the newcomers from Dol Amroth. I was searching for Lord Denethor, smiling and greeting guests on my way, when I heard the opening chords of the pavane, the customary first dance at every ball.

“Excuse me, my lord Vinyarion, I must speak to the players – they’ve started the first dance too soon, for where is –” My eyes searched the ballroom for him, resplendent tonight in wine-colored velvet, as always the handsomest man in the room. _There_ he was – 

Leaning down to speak to his companion, his eyes aglow with a soft light, his smile boyish and eager. 

Her eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lovelier than I had ever seen her, as he led her out to dance. 

My heart seemed to stop in mid-beat. I must have gasped, stumbled, for suddenly a hand was on my arm. 

“Are you ill, Lady Írildë? Would you like some water? Perhaps a glass of wine? Or..” Gently Vinyarion turned me to face him. “Would you care to dance with _me_?”

In that instant I could see all my future. “I would be honored, my lord.”

~*~

Thirty years we had together, and four sons; three gone to soldiers, all gone now.

Vinyarion and Marah, our youngest, fourteen years old, were riding back to the estate house from hay-cutting when they were caught in a sudden storm. A heavy limb, torn by the wind from a cypress tree, fell onto Vinyarion, breaking his neck. When he toppled from his horse Marah ran to his aid; in one mighty gust the whole tree was uprooted and fell upon him. I buried them where they fell, there in the Lossanach countryside they loved.

~*~

And so I returned at last to the White City to live the dowager’s life, for the old customs have our responsibilities set out clearly for us. My Lord Denethor is there, stately and cold; I can see it is true that he closed his heart away when he lost his Finduilas. His sons are magnificent: wise and gentle Faramir, with his mother’s eyes; Boromir, the pride of our city, dazzling in his power and beauty, the image of the man I loved so long ago.

~*~

_For the Moon to lead, and all the Stars to follow (written March, 2005)_

She watches him dance.

Marriageable maidens, eyes downcast, smiling shyly; laughing young matrons, safely flirtatious; silver-haired dowagers, honored for their husband’s wealth and rank. He dances with them sedately; chats with them politely; returns them to their companions graciously. He does what is required of him in social situations; but has little interest in these things.

 _She_ will not dance. He is so accustomed to her refusal it has become a bit of joke between them. He meets her glance; raises an eyebrow; she shakes her head; he laughs, moves on. 

So many times she danced with his father! She was young, and in love; Denethor was not. He could bide his time; she had wealth and lineage too valuable to spare. She raised and sacrificed sons for Gondor; he waited, loved, lost. She _will_ not dance; dares not imagine she is young and beautiful and in those arms again.

A breeze, a flicker, a trick of the candlelight sets Boromir aglow with such fierce radiance her heart seems to stop. She moves toward him; surprised, he takes her hand.  
 _Dance with me, child. Delight an old woman._

He smiles and leads her, tender as a lover, to the dance.


	4. Confidence (Denethor, OMC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Mormegil ever shaved Denethor, he was terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which is introduced my OMC, Mormegil, gentleman's gentleman _par excellence_. Inspired by the endless debate on the subject: “Numenoreans: Bearded, or Not?”

**Confidence**

The first time Mormegil ever shaved Denethor, he was terrified.

When he arrived in the kitchen to collect the early morning tea-tray, one of the kitchen maids gave him the message. Gethron, Lord Denethor's manservant, had been taken ill overnight, and it fell to Mormegil, as manservant-in-training, to attend Lord Denethor in his morning ablutions. In theory, it would not be difficult; Mormegil had been training under Gethron for many months, and was well familiar with his lord's morning routine; but to pick up that wicked -looking razor, and take it to Lord Denethor's bared throat – the thought was enough to make him feel quite ill himself.

“Here, drink this.” The girl handed him a mug of tea and he downed it without question. It was hot, and strong, much stronger than it usually tasted, and he caught a whiff of some exotic spice. Lord Denethor's tea? How dare she! 

“Go on, then,” she laughed. “He'll not know, and you look like you need it. A pity about Gethron, though we've seen it coming; that's why they brought you in, after all. D'ye want some breakfast before you go up? It'll be a long morning, if you have to do your work and his, too; not much chance of slipping down later. I'll fix the tray while you sit a bit. I got up early to make scones; that's why I was the one to get the message. He won't mind his tea a bit late if there's a scone with it. You sit, now.”

Nervous as he was, Mormegil was glad to have a few minutes to compose himself and think through what must be done. The dispatches, first; he must check to see if there were any to be brought up with the tray. Then, while Lord Denethor drank his tea, Mormegil would go to the dressing room and see to heating the shaving water, mix the bowl of shaving soap, set the towel near, but not too near, the brazier to warm. He had watched Gethron do these small tasks a hundred times, had done them himself many times, knew exactly how hot the water should be, how much of the (precious and costly, he'd been reminded often enough) soap flakes should be used, how to mix the lather to the perfect consistency, but still...he buried his head for a moment in his hands. 

When he opened his eyes, the girl was smiling at him over the top of her tea mug; a plate of thickly-sliced bread, melted cheese oozing deliciously over it, was there next to him. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and orange and baking scones, comforting smells. Smiling back at her, he took a deep breath. He could do this.

*****

Lord Denethor responded with an absent-minded _hrumph_ when Mormegil told him of Gethron's absence. As he tied the warm towel around Lord Denethor's neck he noted, almost unconsciously, that the stitching on the shoulder of the Heir's nightshirt was coming apart and would need to be repaired; he would tend to that first-thing as soon as Lord Denethor was gone for the day.

When he began his apprenticeship in the Archives, he had never imagined the odd turn of fate that would place him here in Lord Denethor's chamber, holding a razor to his throat. He had started out sweeping and dusting, running errands for the scribes and bookbinders and visiting scholars. When he was promoted to work in the repair rooms, breathing the heady fumes of glue and paint and ink, carefully re-stitching and repairing frayed bindings and casings, he thought his joy was complete – he could have happily spent the rest of his days there, hunched over his workbench, the pure white light of fine beeswax candles illuminating his tasks. 

The day he was summoned by the Head Archivist, and found him sitting in his office with the Steward's Chamberlain by his side, he thought he would faint then and there from terror. What had he done wrong? He could scarcely understand what the Chamberlain was trying to explain, that the Lord Denethor's manservant would be retiring within a few years, that a replacement was being sought, that none of the young footmen or even kinsmen of other Citadel servants had been found suitable. That he, Mormegil, had been put forward for his meticulous attention to detail, his exemplary work habits, his quiet, modest ways, his elegant and flawless stitchery. Might he be interested in the position? The rate of pay mentioned seemed an fortune to a lad of eighteen, even after sending half home to his family; a small private apartment in the Upper Servant's wing; full board; a clothing allowance; one afternoon off each fortnight. That he would be working for the formidable Lord Denethor, the Steward's only son and heir, distressed him not a bit, for did he not know of him from his visits to the Archives?

But all that had been nearly a year ago; now it was the moment of truth. For the fact of the matter was, Mormegil had made such a botch of shaving himself, back in his youth (was it only four years ago?) that, as soon as practicable, he had grown a small neat beard, trimming it each week with his first purchase with his new-made fortune, a pair of exquisitely crafted scissors, dwarven-steel pattern-welded in gold. It was the sight of the scissors themselves, in fact, that spurred his decision to grow a beard; the thought of possessing an object of such beauty and utility, and making the opportunity to avail himself of such a luxury, was an altogether fortuitous decision. 

And now here he stood, holding a razor, another item of such supreme loveliness, perfect weight and balance as he always heard swordsmen lovingly boast of their blades, honed each day to nearly unimaginable sharpness, and his lord awaiting his ministrations - 

“Well, are you going to get on with it?” Lord Denethor asked.

The blade skimmed along the skin like a leaf dancing on a frozen pond, like a raindrop along the edge of a flower. And when the deed was done, every bit of rosemary-scented lather wiped away with the warm dampened towel, when Lord Denethor had been helped into his heavy surcotte, when the barest trace of imaginary dust had been brushed off his shoulder, Lord Denethor paused on his way out the door. 

“Well done,” he said, and was gone. 

And Mormegil could breathe again.

*****

**Epilogue #1:**

That evening Mormegil heard that Gethron had passed away. “Pity,” Denethor murmured. “You'll do well enough, I suppose.” His words left Mormegil feeling disconcerted until he received a note from the Exchequer that his salary had been doubled. 

On the same day, he ran into Gethron's widow, who burst into tears, embraced him, and begged him to relay her gratitude to Lord Denethor for the extremely generous settlement he had made upon her. “He's such a dear, dear man,” she sobbed, and Mormegil, when he was finally able to break away, was filled with a new appreciation for his lord.

**Epilogue #2: Twenty-five years later**

Boromir sat at breakfast, trying to act unconcerned. He had only returned from Dol Amroth the evening before, and had greeted his father briefly before retiring. Now he awaited judgement: the project he had carefully nurtured over the past several weeks was come to fruition. Faramir, he could see, was nearly twitching with anticipation as well.

After seating himself at the head of the table, Denethor regarded him coolly for a long moment. 

“A beard, is it?” he finally said. “Well, you'd best speak with Mormegil about keeping it neatly trimmed. I'll not have you looking like some scruffy ranger.”


	5. The Brewer's Art

**The Brewer’s Art**

The aroma wafting from the pot was smoky, acrid, exotic. 

“Something new, my lord.” Mormegil had an uncanny ability to read Denethor’s mind. “Second Cook suggested you might find it intriguing.” And so he did, calling for another pot at mid-day, and again late afternoon; but in the evening Mormegil returned empty-handed.

“She says she’ll not be held responsible for your sleeplessness, but promises a pot first thing tomorrow, even before breakfast.”

_What impudence!_ Denethor thought, then reconsidered. If she holds the secret to this brew, I’d best stay on her good side. Until I can discover it for myself.


	6. Light and Leaf and Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Celandine Brandybuck's lovely story, ["Courting the Lady"](http://www.wellinghall.net/fiction/viewstory.php?sid=48). Finduilas’s words are quoted with Celandine’s permission.
> 
> Finduilas writes:
> 
> _What is the spring like in Minas Tirith? I have seen her gardens only in winter, and had difficulty picturing those stone-walled spaces full of light and leaf and color. . ._
> 
> Written for the "Green" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

**Light and Leaf and Color**

First appear the tentative green blades of the crocus-leaves, then saffron and lavender blooms lie scattered like jewels on the snowy ground. As the days lengthen, checkered-lilies and columbines lift their heads in anticipation, until, finally, the riotous trumpeting of the daffodils – spring has returned!

Branch gives way to blossom; blossom gives way to leaf. Every patch of green is alive with chattering, chirruping, feathered souls; goldfinch, nightingale, linnet. How can their tiny bodies sustain such ceaseless, joyous music?

I pray you, lady, return soon to my city: the music that delights me most is the sound of your voice.


	7. The Giver and the Gifted

**The Giver**

"Mormegil, if I were to want to give a lady a gift, what would you suggest?"

"That would depend on the lady, my lord. A book? Poetry?Jewelry?"

  "Jewelry would be gilding the lily. Something useful, perhaps? Yet beautiful."

  "Gloves? A headscarf?"

  "A cloak? Blue, to match her eyes?”

Mormegil nodded. "Indeed, sir."

"Deep blue velvet, like the evening sky. Stars, I think, embroidered on the velvet. Would that be too garish?"

"Not at all. Goldwork on dark blue is lovely."

"Could you find someone to craft such a gift? Before Mettarë?" 

"I'm sure I can, sir," Moremegil smiled.

 

**The Gifted**

Mormegil had seen the fabric once, from the corner of his eye, while visiting Arrad Tailor's workroom. Now Arrad was rolling it out reverently, rhapsodizing about pile and nap and how the color would vary with the light. 

There was a tap at the door; a young woman entered. She was small and slim and as lovely, Mormegil thought, as Tinúviel, as Melian the Maia. "Oh, the blue velvet!" she exclaimed happily. "I've always loved it; the color is so rich." 

"My sister, Rívorn," said Arrad, "and my embroiderer. By her skill will Lord Denethor's lady be wrapped in starlight." 


	8. Al Fresco

**Al Fresco**

Bodyguards and chaperones ensconced a discreet distance away, the lovers (the betrothed, not yet lovers in actuality, but soon, oh, so soon) spread their picnic.

Oysters, plucked that very morning from the sea-bed, garnished with lemon from the princess’s own garden. Carob-dipped candied ginger, smuggled expensively from far Harad, exploding like passion upon the tongue. Tart, juicy star-fruit. Dandelion wine, tasting of summer sunlight; apple cider, cool and crisply scented of autumn.

With warm damp cloths they laughingly cleanse each other’s faces, lingering to caress lips, cheeks. Soon these sensual feasts will be enjoyed in privacy.


	9. Frazzled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding-day jitters.

**Frazzled**

“The burgundy, Mormegil, are you sure? I prefer black.”

“’Tis a wedding, my lord, not a funeral. The burgundy is quite festive.”

“Not the blue? It’s cooler. I’m sweating like a pig.”

“A lighter shirt, then. Pigs do not sweat, they roll in the mud when they are overheated.”

“That’s much better. How do you know about pigs, Mormegil?”

“I read, my lord; a useful skill. Ah, here’s your breakfast. Thank you, girl.”

“You know, I despise oysters. Will I have to eat them every day for the next twenty years?”

“Not if they do the job tonight, my lord.”


	10. Behind Every Great Man...

**Behind Every Great Man...**

“Perhaps we should inspect the bridal chamber one last time? Just to be sure everything is, ah, ready for tonight?”

"As you wish, my lord.”

“Where…where did the flowers come from?”

“The gardeners dug the bulbs, from the garden at the Houses of Healing, and potted them up so they would be in bloom today. Narcissus and hyacinth are hardly in season, midsummer.”

“How…?”

“I wrote to milady’s maidservant, several months ago.”

“Ah, very thoughtful of you.”

“No, my lord, very thoughtful of _you_.”

“Indeed. What are these flowers called, again?”

“Narcissus, hyacinth.”

“Ah, Mormegil…’

“My lord?”

“Which are which?”


	11. Hope

**Hope**

 

He is not the husband I would have wished for her – so old, so cold! But I am only her lady's-maid, my opinion not considered in the councils of the mighty. I could only bite my tongue, keeping my concerns to myself. 

Until the day we were in the garden, Finduilas and I, gathering herbs and lavender blossoms to dry. Glancing up at the sound of footsteps I saw his face, lit with joy, as he watched her; my fears were soothed. Surely there was warmth within him; she would coax it forth, and their days would be blessed.


	12. The Secret Garden

**The Secret Garden**

Few suspected the romantic heart that beat behind the Steward's dour exterior. A lengthy courtship allowed him time to plan, his secret entrusted to a skillful few. 

On the night of the first full-moon of his married life, he led his bride by hidden pathways. Kissing her hair as he untied the soft silk blindfold, he smiled at her surprised gasp: a shimmering garden of pure white flowers, illuminated only by moonlight and starlight. Narcissus and anemone, jasmine and wisteria; the heady perfume an incense, an homage to the lady who held his heart, his future, in her gentle hands.


	13. Passion

**Passion**

The year’s end celebration: feasting and dancing and bonfires. At the Citadel there is candlelight; scent of cedar and fir and exotic spices; elegantly garbed and perfumed guests: the Lord Steward’s _mettarë_ ball.

As she turns, smiling, to welcome a shy guest; as he bends, thoughtfully, to greet an old ally: their eyes meet, and a spark, a nearly palpable burst of light and heat.

Ah, the unspoken words transmitted upon the power of that glance!

_Dear one, husband, how handsome you are tonight! I wish –_

_Would that this evening were over, my Finduilas, my love! My jewel. My precious._


	14. Beyond Imagination

**Beyond Imagination**

As the child grew within her, Finduilas rested through the noonday. Her husband joined her when he could, a pleasant respite from duty and care.

Sometimes Denethor rubbed her back. The sight of her body then filled him not with passion, but quiet joy, and awe, and thankfulness. She lay on her side and he curled around her, his hand cupping her ever-so-slightly rounded belly.

Something stirred against his palm, like the flutter of an owl’s wing brushing silently past on a midsummer’s evening. He held his breath, wondering.

“Finduilas,” he whispered.

“Sssh,” her soft reply. “Your son is awake.”


	15. Three Drabbles for Nine Months

**The First Three**

Each morning he held her hair back as she retched, then wiped her face, ashamed at the relief he felt when her maidservant finally arrived with the dry rusks and tea that were all she could choke down. 

By nuncheon she usually felt a bit better, and could manage soup or custard. His meal was sent up on the tray as well. Afterwards, he would read to her until she slept, then return to his office and the mundane tasks that kept him from going mad with worry. 

_Surely, our child will be worth this,_ he thought. _He must be._

**The Second Five**

Then, like the spring flowers, she bloomed. 

No more dry rusks and tea - she called instead for eggs, bacon, toast; the kitchen staff danced for joy. Mid-day he would join her at the table he’d set up in the garden: cold chicken, fruit and cheese, roasted almonds, goat's milk. Merrily as magpies they’d chatter: news, gossip, boy's names, girl's names, hopes and dreams. Once she discovered that he’d played the lute, there was nothing for it but for him to sing to her. 

Later, he looked back on those days and nearly wept at the sweetness of those memories. 

**The Last One**

Late summer; the city sweltered. In the midday heat she craved only sweet melon and lemon water, until one day – 

"Oysters," she whispered. 

"Smoked?" he asked hopefully. She shook her head. He sighed. 

They made a great contest of it, capturing the city’s imagination: a sack of gemstones and pearls to whoever could deliver Dol Amroth oysters first and freshest. 'Twas a scruffy vagabond, a pirate (or so some said) who won the race. To Lord Denethor’s amazement, he turned down the prize. "Ever at my lady's service", he murmured; bowed and slipped away before anyone could catch his name. 

*****  
"My Lady wants oysters? – He sent his swiftest ships with barrels and ice to keep them sweet till they be brought to her. And what did she do? Smelt them! Not one did she eat; just had them opened that she might inhale the scent of the ocean, she said." From ["The Sky Wept Diamonds"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?stid=4177) by Elen Kortirion 


	16. Marriage Counseling

**Marriage Counseling**

“So the marriage is successful, then?” Imrahil eyed Finduilas over the soft dark fuzz of his newborn nephew’s head.

“What is a successful marriage? Affection, and respect. He has his work, and I have mine, now. Did you think it would not be? Have I not been raised to know my duty?”

“Affection, respect, duty. What of joy? Passion? He seems a dull humorless man, but perhaps you see a side of him I do not…”

She laughed, soft music, and the babe stirred sleepily in his uncle’s arms. “I see many sides of him that you do not, brother.”


	17. Where A Man's Treasure Is, There Will His Heart Be Also

**Where a man's treasure is, there will his heart be also**

The new father, brow furrowed in concentration, holds his child on a blanket spread over his lap. Bit by bit, he unfastens white linen swaddling and examines this extraordinary treasure, this jewel. His eyes alight with joy and wonder, he marvels at the dark silken hair, the tiny perfect fingers, the milky-dreaming mouth.

Is that a lullabye he softly sings?

_Care you know not,_   
_Therefore sleep,_   
_While I o'er you watch do keep._   
_Sleep, my little son,_   
_Do not cry…_

Thorongil watches from the shadow, almost sick with envy and despair. Will _he_ ever hold a son of his own?


	18. Haiku Writing

**Haiku Writing**

She is accustomed to seeing him write for hours, smiling with satisfaction; so it is unusual to see him so frustrated, writing and scratching and writing; then crumpling the paper and tossing it aside. What is it that disturbs him so?

“It’s a form of poetry, quite different from anything we write. Seventeen syllables, in a specific pattern: five, seven, five. I can’t get mine to quite work …bother! How do they do it?”

She smooths the wadded paper with her hand, and reads:

_The sea breeze carries_  
Whispers of spring, to gladden   
My lady’s grey eyes 

“Count again, love.”


	19. Peace

**Peace**

She has fallen asleep in her chaise by the window, their newborn son peaceful in her arms. For a moment he is annoyed– Where is the nurserymaid? – but then he sees the dance of moon and shadow, the play of starlight on their faces, and is captivated, thinking he has never seen a sight so lovely.

_I watch while you sleep_  
Pale moonlight brushes your skin  
In your dreams, you smile 

 

He thanks the Powers for all the blessings of his life: wife, sons, homeland; and prays for wisdom and strength and courage to hold them safe, no matter what.


	20. A Distant Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted at LJ community Tolkien_weekly, May 22, 2007. For the "Behind" challenge.

A Distant Memory

 

The child scurried away, chortling – his favorite game. Startled by the strangers in his garden, he crouched behind a tree to study them: a grey-beard in flowing robes; a scruffy-looking man in well-worn leathers. They spoke quietly, then suddenly burst together into companionable laughter.

“I've found you!” Nurse scooped him into her arms. He struggled, surprising her – he did not want to leave. He liked the sound of that laughter. He wanted to be laughing with them, too. 

Years later, when Boromir heard it again, he felt warmed inside, though he did not remember why.


	21. Hard Labor

**Hard Labor**

The boy's grip was so tight his fingers were white. There was no sound but the scritch-scritch of his pen, and his occasional gasps of dismay. The others in the room - reading, writing, embroidering - were quiet, hesitant to disturb his concentration. Finally he let out a long breath. 

"Look, Ada!" 

I AM ~~FARMIR~~  
I AM FARAMIR  
SON OF ~~DENNETHOR~~  
SON OF DENETHOR  
I AM DENETHOR'S SON.

The parchment was grubby, stained with sweat and inkblots. "Well done!" Denethor said, sweeping him into a great bear hug. His mother beamed. _Excellent!_ Boromir mouthed, and Faramir grinned back at him.


	22. A Simple Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted at the LJ community tolkien_weekly on November 16, 2006. For the "speedily" challenge.

A Simple Pleasure

The path to the river was narrow and steep, lined with blueberry bushes on either side. Their guard had gone first, of course; others lurked nearby, unseen as always.

“The last one in…”   
“Is an egg!” Faramir shrieked, giddy and shrill in his excitement. 

Nanny came behind, collecting discarded clothing and shoes, smiling at the sounds of their carefree delight. She would not begrudge them so simple a pleasure, to be boys like any others, high-spirited and loud. Fate was hurling them speedily enough towards adulthood; let this day be another happy memory, a comfort against the dark times ahead.


	23. The First Cut Is the Deepest

**The First Cut Is the Deepest**

He would have been better off to wait for a proper practice sword. It would have been made of pine, perhaps, smoothly sanded and stained. The hilt would have been properly fitted to his hand. It would have been presented to him at breakfast on his seventh birthday, with all due ceremony, his father beaming, his mother looking both proud and perhaps a bit sorrowful. He would have counted it as his first day as a warrior, albeit a warrior-in-training. 

But, of course, he couldn't wait. Once he found those bits of lathe in a corner of a shed by the stables there was no stopping him. He convinced the blacksmith's apprentice to nail them together, and set out to do battle with the monkey-puzzle tree in his mother's garden. 

It wasn't a moment before a long, jagged splinter was embedded in his hand. He stared at it, the blood welling out from his palm, dripping onto his breeches, his boot, the ground. 

"It was the first time my blood was shed for Gondor," Boromir would laugh, later, but remembering, he always felt slightly sick at the shock of that discovery, that he could be hurt, that he could bleed.


	24. Salty Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Salty" challenge at Tolkien_weekly, and inspired by the Flogging Molly song of the same name. Nanny's character is used with the permission of her creator, Edoraslass.

**Salty Dog**

Prince Imrahil brought them home sandy, sunburnt, and overtired, as usual. 

“Nanny! Uncle taught us some sailor’s songs!” Boromir bounced madly on the bed while I pulled Faramir’s boots and socks off. Salty dog, he murmured, smiling in his sleep, as Boromir began to sing.

_“Left ya for the starvin' crows,  
Hoverin' like hungry_ – ow!”

Imrahil clapped his hand over Boromir’s mouth. “It’s a pirate song, Boromir, not to be sung in the presence of ladies,” he said sheepishly.

I tried to hide my grin; my gleeful brothers had taught me that very song when I was just Boromir’s age.


	25. Bad Example

**Bad Example**

 

Finduilas could hear her boys, giggling under the monkey-puzzle tree, and stopped to savor the moment: _My beautiful sons. How soon you will be grown._

“Bollocks!” declaimed Boromir.

“Bufflehead!” exclaimed Faramir.

“Bugger-all!” roared Boromir.

“Bushtit!” chortled Faramir

“Bloody whoreson!” whooped Boromir.

“Blue-footed booby!” shrieked Faramir.

Boromir gasped. “You said ‘tit’! And ‘booby’! Everyone knows those are bad words! And Mother heard you!”

Faramir whirled around, panic-striken,. “I didn’t mean to!” He burst into tears. “Uncle said they were birds’ names!”

_That Imrahil,_ Finduilas sighed, gathering Faramir into her arms as Boromir tried to look innocent, _has much to answer for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For noted bird-lover mrkinch. (They are all actually bird's names.)


	26. A Simple Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Speedily" challenge at Tolkien_weekly.

**A Simple Pleasure**

 

The path to the river was narrow and steep, lined with blueberry bushes on either side. Their guard had gone first, of course; others lurked nearby, unseen as always.

“The last one in…” 

“Is an egg!” Faramir shrieked, giddy and shrill in his excitement. 

Nanny came behind, collecting discarded clothing and shoes, smiling at the sounds of their carefree delight. She would not begrudge them so simple a pleasure, to be boys like any others, high-spirited and loud. Fate was hurling them speedily enough towards adulthood; let this day be another happy memory, a comfort against the dark times ahead.


	27. Kindred Spirits

**Kindred Spirits**

Through all his long years, Mithrandir had envied neither elf nor man, concentrating always on his task: the defeat of the Dark One.

Yet when the raven-haired boy gazed at him with such admiration, he could not help but wonder: what it would have been like to father such a child? To see him grow daily in grace and wisdom, to delight in his eager curiosity, to mold his learning to noble ends? Why was such joy granted to one who treasured it not?

He revered his King Elessar, but dear Faramir had always been the child of his heart.


	28. Thus Are Legends Born

**Thus Are Legends Born**

_Plop!_ Tiny wriggling legs disappeared under a moss-covered rock.

“What was that? A baby dragon?” Faramir whispered excitedly. The startling gleam of red amidst the dark wet leaves had attracted their attention to the vernal pool.

“Probably an eft, a young salamander. Aren’t dragons green, anyway? And why would a dragon be in a mudpool, here by the Anduin?”

The seven-year-old loremaster surveyed his brother solemnly. “A baby dragon, whose blood is new, and hot, would glow red and yellow. Water would cool it, as it grew, turning it green and gold . We have seen a great wonder today, brother.”


	29. Birdsong

**Birdsong**

The gift was an impulse purchase from a street vendor in the Fifth Circle, and now, Boromir was trapped. He had little knowledge (and no interest, if truth be told) but Faramir was waiting, eyes aglow, for the one who excelled at all things to share this wondrous skill as well. 

“I can show you.” Denethor lifted his son onto his lap. “Set your fingers, so, and blow through here – aha!” A short sweet trill, like birdsong, Faramir’s gasp of surprise, then delighted laughter. 

“Show me again, Ada,” and again and again, patiently, until Faramir could play the simple tune himself. 

Just a snippet of memory, really, but one that Boromir kept tucked away, precious.


	30. Sea Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early-morning excursion to the seashore has surprising results for young Boromir, Faramir, and Uncle Imrahil.

**Sea Food**

 

Imrahil had noticed his nephews gazing with fascination at the fishermen’s children, dropping their lines off the edge of the quay to snare the crabs lurking below. Was it their simple lives that the boys envied, he wondered, or their utter fearlessness in handling those worrisome beasts?

With their Nanny’s collusion, he awoke them in the early morning dark. “Dress quickly, and come with me,” he whispered, as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. They did not question, for had he not always plied them with wondrous surprises?

Barefoot, they padded through the silent marble halls, out the garden gate, and down to the beach below. Past the dunes, to the rocky outcrops the boys had seldom visited, deemed too dangerous for the young and unsure of foot.

In the moonlight the tidal pools glimmered, full of mysterious, fey creatures. Some, like living flowers, waved their petals as if in time to underwater music; others, hauling their homes on their backs, crawled purposefully along the sea-mossy rocks. Fiddler crabs scuttled and scurried away.

“Look,” Imrahil whispered, showing them how to snatch a crab from behind, avoiding the snapping claws. He pulled a featherweight net sack from his pocket and slipped the crab inside. “Let’s see how many we can gather, shall we?

Slipping and sliding in the squelchy mud, dancing and chasing each other with the nippy creatures, they laughed until their bellies ached; but still managed to fill their sack with lively, jostling crabs.

“That’s plenty, good! Now we just need to collect driftwood for the fire, and some seaweed to bury them in.”

“Why are we burying them, Uncle? We just caught them.” Boromir was still breathless with giggling.

“We’ll steam them in the seaweed, and then we’ll have them for our breakfast.”

Instantly all merriment ceased. “Cook them?” They stared at him, aghast.

Imrahil had certainly not expected that reaction. “Yes, of course. Nice and fresh, plucked straight from - ”

“But they’re alive. They’re alive right now.” Boromir poked the squirmy bag gingerly with his toe. “You can’t just…”

“But I thought you boys liked steamed crabs. You had them the first day you were here, remember? You cracked open the claws and - ”

“That was different. Those crabs were supper. These crabs are creatures.” Faramir looked woeful.

“Very well, then,” Imrahil suppressed a sigh, knowing when to concede defeat. “But what about our breakfast?”

“There were beach-plum bushes, back there on the dunes. We could have beach-plums for breakfast…” Faramir was already showing signs of a ranger’s resourcefulness.

“…and that would tide us over until we got home, and had some real breakfast.” Boromir always was the pragmatic one.

So they took the sack, full of fine crabs, and spilled them out into the water, watching as the crabs swam happily away.

“Goodbye, crabs! Have a good life!” Faramir chirped. Imrahil coughed, choking back his laughter.

They headed back down the beach, stopping to sample the beach-plums along the way. There weren’t very many, and they weren’t quite ripe.

“I hope there’s some breakfast left,” Faramir said in a small voice. “Beach- plums don’t really fill you up…”

“I hope Cook has fried some fish,” declaimed Boromir. “I love a nice, fried fish for breakfast.”


	31. Of That Other World

**Of That Other World**

 

Uncle Imrahil taught me to sail, but not Boromir – for some reason he never took to the sea, though he was skillful enough at handling the little flatboats that plied the Anduin. 

No, sailing was a pleasure we reserved for ourselves alone. We would take out the skiff, just big enough for two, and sail out past the headlands, admiring this unfamiliar view of the city as we looked southeastward toward the fair green hills of Tarnost. As we sailed Uncle taught me the names of all the sea-birds, and how to tell a guillemot from a kittiwake by the way they caught their dinner. We laughed at the plump, self-satisfied sea otters, floating languorously on their backs, and watched seals and dolphins frolic and dance.

Once we were becalmed in a sudden fog, mist so thick I felt I was choking. As the sails hung, listless, I thought I heard moaning, howling, mournful cries; then a ghostly splashing and lapping of water all around. I became terrified – were the ghosts of lost Numenor rising from the sea to drag us below with them? But Uncle wrapped his arms around me, comforting me: _Wait_ , he said, _and watch._

After a time the sails begin to stir; a few moments later we drifted free of the mist. And suddenly all around us, the sea was white-capped, churning with whales: black and silver, grey and white, singing the timeless songs of those who live in that other world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday story for Windswept1.


	32. The White Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Oak" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

**The White Tree**

To young Boromir's mind, the White Tree is an oak. 

Oaks are strong to resist every storm, and have deep roots untouched by the frost. An oaken shield will deflect any blow, and a bed of oak leaves will protect the warrior from the cold, damp ground. In direst need, the fruit of the oak could serve as food (but only in direst need, he admits). Gondor's ancient oaks could sustain her through any trial. 

When his heart is stirred by the sight of banners whipping in the wind, the tree he sees is a mighty oak, his secret sigil.


	33. Mourning Cloak

**Mourning Cloak**

My Lord Denethor now wears only black, but this was not always so.

He had always worn somber colors, but when my lady Finduilas brought joy into his life, she brought color, too. Deep burgundy, like Dorwinion wine. Rich forest green. Midnight blue – the color he chose for that lovely mantle, his gift to her that first autumn. _I would give you the sky full of stars if I could, love,_ he murmured, his eyes aglow, and her smile would have lit the heavens. 

When she died he raged: _Take away these fripperies, and bring me something black._

As time went on, mindful always of the grandeur of the steward’s office, I ordered increasingly elaborate clothing, trimmed with fur or intricate embroidery, but always black. Once, I caught a glimpse of my lord holding a bit of soft fur to his cheek, eyes closed; but then his face seemed to crumple, and he tossed the garment aside.


	34. First Love

**First Love**

“This scruffy mongrel?” Denethor asked doubtfully.

“He's been hanging around the stables. He didn't belong to anyone, so we brought him home. We didn't want him startling the horses,” Boromir added reasonably, the well-rehearsed tale flowing smooth as honey.

Faramir kept silent. From the moment he'd seen the dog, _this dog_ , he could think of nothing else. Five copper pennies was such a small price to pay! 

The soft nudge of a velvety nose against his palm heartened him. “Don't worry,” Ranger seemed to say. “We were meant for each other, and nothing will keep us apart.”


	35. When In Doubt, Ask Your Brother

**When in Doubt, Ask Your Brother**

 

He knew Boromir kept a book hidden under his mattress, and had even stolen a glimpse at it once, but what he saw was so bizarre, so incomprehensible, he hid it quickly, and went to review the history of Gondolin until the images were out of his mind.

Now thirteen, and practically an adult, he looked for the book again. When Boromir found him with his hand stuck under the mattress he laughed ‘til he cried. _That old book? Oh, I gave it away. I have a much better one now. Shall I show you?_

So they looked at the book together, and what he did not understand, Boromir tried to explain. Much of it was still strange, but this time, he kept the images in his mind, to ponder later at his leisure.


	36. Fifteenth

**Fifteenth**

The flagon of wine sat untouched on the table. Boromir noted the flush to Faramir's cheeks, his parted lips, his fingers tapping his knee in time to the music. It all sounded like caterwauling to Boromir, the jangling lute-strings and odd, atonal wailing, so he poured himself a drink and tried not to look bored. It was Faramir's birthday, after all, and he had suggested this tavern. 

Then the tempo began to quicken, and the clatter of castanets replaced the singing. When the dancers leapt forward, eyes flashing, silks swirling, Boromir finally understood: his little brother was growing up.


	37. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to both Jane Austen and William Shakespeare. Het!Boromir (because I didn't know any better at the time.) A birthday gift for Aervir.

**A Truth Universally Acknowledged**

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Steward’s heir, in possession of sound limbs and mind, and pleasing form, must be in want of a wife." 

Faramir chuckled; Boromir sighed and rolled his eyes before turning towards the graceful young woman standing in the doorway. Just beyond her, the ballroom was awash in light, color, music; while here on the balcony was peace and quiet. Or had been. 

“And how many of them have you interviewed on our behalf, Lothíriel?” Boromir asked. “For I am sure you are acquainted with all the eligible maids in Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith, and the estates in between. Are you recruiting for Faramir, and your brothers, as well? It would make things much easier, you know; just send each of us a list of likely candidates, with their flaws and virtues clearly identified, and we can choose the least unappealing. Or draw lots amongst us; that might work even better.” He could see Faramir’s shoulders silently shaking with laughter.

“I don’t see how you can take this so lightly. For a thousand years the stewardship has been passed, father to son. That sort of heritage is not to be ignored! Yet you seem to have no interest at all in fulfilling your responsibilities.”

“Not fulfilling my responsibilities?” Boromir choked; Faramir decided to give him a moment’s rest from their cousin’s attack.

“I’m sure that Boromir is well aware of his shortcomings in this area; our father was discussing it with him just the other day.” That at least was true; Boromir had been taken to task for a rather excessive bill from the House of Silk. One of his captains was being married, and a celebration had been in order: unique, memorable, and highly enjoyed by all the participants. “Perhaps he has just not yet met the woman who will entice him to give up his freedom, to accept his adult responsibilities.”

Lothíriel easily took that bait. She turned toward Boromir curiously. “And just what sort of a woman would entice you, cousin?” 

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “What sort? Any sort, I suppose; I’ll not be difficult to please when it comes to choosing a bride; I just have no time for the choosing. Rich, she should be, that’s certain; a family can never have too much money. Wise, or she’ll not interest me; not too wise, lest I bore her, and she’ll seek someone more to her taste, like Faramir!” Faramir grinned, but Lothíriel looked thoughtful. 

“Virtuous, unless she’s already given up her virtue to me. There are a few who have… still, that’s not an encouraging start to a marriage. How would I know who else had dipped into that well? Fair, of course; if I’m going to be looking across the dinner-table at her for fifty years. Mild, by all means; the Valar know I’m certainly not.” Both Lothíriel and Faramir had to smile at that.

“Noble – I can’t see Father consenting to less than pure Numenorean blood, no matter whom I choose. Wit would be nice, I suppose, for the rare moments I would actually have to spend talking to her. She should be of good discourse, pleasant-natured: yes, those things I would like.”

“I think you’ve described at least half of the women who are waiting for you in that ballroom; most of whom you’ve known since you were five,” Faramir observed. 

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? What is there to choosing? You could toss a dart in that room and take whichever one claimed to be pierced in the heart. And make a good marriage of it as well. What is there to marriage, anyway?” Lothíriel, open-mouthed, started to speak, but he went on determinedly. “I’ll have my duties, and she’ll have hers; once a year I’ll get a child on her and she’ll see to its raising. It’s not like she’ll be living in a squatter’s hut on the first circle; she’ll have as much help as she needs. Raise my children well, and don’t dishonor me or my family, that’s all I would ask.”

“You’ve certainly taken all of the romance out of it!” Lothíriel protested. “Is there no poetry at all in your soul? No music, or beauty? What should she look like? What hair color, at least?”

“Music? It all sounds like caterwauling to me, except I do like a good marching song. Hair color? Hair color? How would I know? I suppose if she’s Numenorean it would be dark, wouldn’t it? Like all of us? Though I confess,” he laughed, sheepishly, “I’ve always had a preference for tall, blue-eyed blondes.”   
Suddenly Lothíriel giggled, reminding him that she was, for all her matchmaking ways, a young girl herself. “So have I, cousin, so have I.”


	38. Answered Prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU. Bad, painful, AU

**Answered Prayers**

 

Seldom did I meddle in matters of politics or diplomacy, unless my counsel was asked; but I had promised my son to plead on his behalf.

"Faramir has studied the elves, their language and history, their subtle ways. Would not that knowledge, that understanding, prove more vital in this instance than Boromir's forthrightness?"

My lord husband pondered, drumming his fingers on the table; finally sighed. "You are wise in this, dear heart, as in so many things. Faramir, this quest is yours: do not disappoint us.”

_Thank you_ , Faramir whispered as he kissed me goodnight, his eyes dancing with excitement.


	39. Dinner at Eight

**Dinner at Eight**

 

Damrod was still gloating over his five fat trout while Anborn, less lucky a fisherman, mixed ground meal and water, patting the mixture into bannocks and setting them to bake on a hot stone. From the underbrush, two of the younger rangers emerged, hands full of blackberries still warm from the last rays of the westering sun. 

Dinner in Ithilien. 

Faramir sighed, leaned back, stifled a belch. Somewhere, not too far away, there were glittering parties, music and laughter and conversation, rich food and fine wines. But at this moment, he would not trade places with anyone in the world.


	40. One Summer Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlets by request, all four ficlets flowing together into one summery tale.

Prompt: Boromir gardening  
 **It's A Mystery**

Though I had happy memories of our mother’s garden, I had never really thought about it once she was gone. Whenever I peered in through the wrought-iron gate, all seemed in order; so I was startled while passing by one day to find Boromir, stripped to the waist, his shoulders gleaming with sweat and streaked with dirt, manning a pair of pruning shears, a small stack of lilac-trimmings neatly piled nearby.

“I’d never imagine you to set aside the captaincy, even for a day, in favor of gardening,” I said.

Boromir laughed. “ ‘Tis mindless work, but relaxing. I like the feel of earth under my fingers. Did you ever stop to think...” He raised the stoneware crock and took a long pull of ale before offering it to me, “that when this city was built, every bit of soil in these gardens was carried up here? The grass-clippings and the leaves and flower-stems renew it, now, but it all began somewhere else. Birds and bugs have flown here, or been tossed by the breeze, carrying seed in their bellies to give us windflowers and dandelions and chokecherry bushes. But the earthworms – and there are lots of them, too – how did they get up here?”

I stared at him, totally dumbfounded, then began to laugh myself. “I never thought of it, and now, I’ll never _stop_ thinking of it until I’ve come up with an answer.”

“Well, while you’re thinking,” he said, “ pick up a spade, and start digging out those purple iris – they’re overcrowded, and I promised some to the gardener at the Houses of Healing.” 

 

Prompt: Faramir and Boromir relaxing  
 **Many Hands Make Light Work**

I had not thought to spend my day so. I had just left a rather difficult interview with my Lord Steward concerning increased funds for my rangers; and so the temptation of a few hours spent in a quiet garden with my brother was more than I could withstand. Digging and hacking provided an excellent outlet for my frustration. After a while, Boromir threw himself onto the ground, wiping his brow as he surveyed the garden with satisfaction. I stretched out beside him. 

“We’ve accomplished quite a bit here, and I thank you for your help! Mag will be by around mid-day, I think; when I told her my plans for the day she got that thoughtful look in her eye, though she didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll stay then, by all means; I’ve not had the pleasure of one of Mag’s picnics in years. A disadvantage of being posted away from the City.” So I said, but I sometimes felt it an acceptable trade-off for the freedom of Ithilien. 

“Picnic! Ha! It’s a workman’s lunch. Picnics, though… Do you remember those picnics we used to have at Dol Amroth? And the spiced crabs, the way uncle used to fix them? 

 

Prompt: Prince Imrahil cooking  
 **Master Chef**

Had I not been born, by the grace of the Valar, Prince of Dol Amroth, I would have like to have been a cook. Or a fisherman.

As a boy, I’d cast my line at the edge of the surf, on the beach below the garden. I’d proudly bring my catch up to the kitchen, where our cook would nod approvingly, then serve it to me, crisply fried and perfectly seasoned, for my breakfast. As I became older, I’d go back and watch her, and thus learned many secrets. It’s always a good thing to be friends with the cook.

During my seafaring days, I’d learned many ways to prepare fish, lobster, squid. I didn’t have much opportunity to use those skills until later, first with my nephews, and then my own children as well. We would have what we called “Corsair parties”, down on the beach. We’d steam lobsters and crabs in a pit full of seaweed, or grill a sea-bass, and eat it all with our fingers; washing it down with well-watered ale. With all due respect to my own cook, those were some of the best meals I can remember, not just because of the food.

 

Prompt: Comfort Food  
 **Comfort Food**

My darling boy came by early, slyly mentioning that he planned to spend the morning working in his mother’s garden. I could read his mind well enough, I always could; so I merely nodded. He headed off, whistling, for all the world like any gardener’s helper, happy to be at work on such a lovely day.

As I set about my tasks that morning I packed his basket, bit by bit: crusty bread, soft cheese, hard sausage. Apricots. Cherries. Raspberry tarts, apple turnovers. Another flask of ale, a bottle of cold tea. Spiced almonds.

I was just about to call the baking boy to help carry it when one of the cook’s helpers led in a sturdy young girl, carrying a seagrass hamper on her back. She slid it off easily and set it on the flagstone floor. 

“Crabs, mum,” the girl said. “We caught them just t’other day, and wrapped them up in seaweed. Poured salt water on ‘em every day to keep them alive’. Lookat ‘em wriggle! My mother said you should have first pick, and if you don’t want ‘em I’m to take ‘em down to the fourth circle fishmarket.”

Crabs, eh? I remember Boromir talking excitedly about eating crabs when he visited Dol Amroth, cracking the claws and picking out the tasty meat inside. “I’ll take them, and thank your mother for thinking of me,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a handful of coin. 

There was some confusion, and fear, as I set the kitchen maids to digging the crabs out of the basket; finally, the baking boy laughingly took over the job. The seaweed would be put to good use dug into a garden. I steamed them up quickly, adding a few spices Prince Imrahil had suggested as being particularly toothsome for crab. Setting them carefully in a crock, we set out to bring the garden help his lunch, the spicy scent of steamed crab preceding us all the way.

I should not have been surprised to find Faramir there as well; both of them eagerly reaching for the basket. “There’s bread and cheese,” I said, “and sausage, and fruit, and a surprise –”

“Steamed crabs!” Boromir whooped. “Faramir, what did I tell you? The woman’s a mind reader!” He grabbed me by the waist and whirled me around, until we were both giddy with laughter. It always did my heart good to make my boy happy.


	41. Summer in the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The companion piece to the previous ("Dinner at Eight"). Sorry about the earworm.

**Summer in the City**

Smile, chatter, _clink._

Turn, bow, chatter, smile, _clink._

Too much food, too many people, too much perfume, too much. He loosens his collar. Smiles. Bows. Turns toward a window - 

And a breeze, a sudden, delicious breeze, cool and smelling of green. If there were trees in his ever-beloved, thrice-damned, baking-hot stone of a city, they would be rustling now, twisting towards the whisper, the promise of – 

Rain. He thinks on his brother, somewhere out there, the dark woods, the green, wet woods, and envies him; wishes him safe and sheltered, safe and fed and out of the rain.


	42. Any Tree, Every Tree

Any Tree, Every Tree

 

To Faramir's mind, any tree in Gondor could be the White Tree.

Any tree, every tree

Gleaming in midsummer moonlight, or glistening with midwinter ice 

Shimmering with springtime blossom, or autumn leaves sere as bleached bones.

Yet white is not one color: white encompasses all.

Tender green buds tightly furled, full of promise 

Soft-shadowed dusky groves where lovers plight their troth

Red berries of holly, of rowan, of ash, bright against the snow.

All these, and more. Any tree, every tree.

Any tree, every tree, that lives and breathes in Gondor is, to Faramir's mind and heart, the White Tree.


	43. L'Chayim

**L’Chayim**

We vowed ever to remember each other on Midsummer night, and for over twenty years I have kept that vow.

~*~

This year I spent Midsummer day in battle: my brother’s men and my own fighting to hold Osgiliath, beloved and ruined city. As the bridge fell we jumped together; we touched things in that water that we never wish to think of again. But then, miraculously, we were on the riverbank, side by side, coughing and gasping.

After the tumult of the day, the moment seemed dreamlike: the warm softness of the air, the scent of flowers on the breeze, the pale stars glimmering in the Midsummer night sky - -

> _On Midsummer night, wherever we are, we will stop and think about what we have shared, and will share again one day._

I began to laugh, relief and joy flooding through me. Faramir looked at me as though I were a madman – had I not always been the stalwart one? – then took me in his arms, rocking me as though I were a child. I felt as joyful as a newborn child, for I was alive, and somewhere my Théo was alive, too, and laughing under the stars.

"L'Chayim" - To Life!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See also our series, ["Two Heirs" for more Boromir/Théodred goodness.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/84109)


End file.
